Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,94

He is familiar with the intricacies of magic; he knows how it ebbs and flows through even the strongest of mortal magicians. He could not have taught you for more than a day without realizing the truth.”

“Why . . . why didn’t he . . .?”

“Why didn’t he tell you? Fear, most likely. Fear of what you could do, what you could become. Mortal mages are all alike, you know—arrogant bastards, eager to suppress and surmount all others in their climb to the top. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill you at once. It was mortals who urged the outlawing of ibrildians back when the Pledge was signed. They couldn’t bear the competition, as it were. They couldn’t bear the idea of beings who could simultaneously command both mortal and fae magic.”

Nelle slumped in her seat, resting her elbow on the table and her forehead on the tips of her fingers. It was too much. Far too much.

Then again, it wasn’t as though she had any real right to resent Soran for keeping such a secret from her. How many dangerous secrets had she withheld from him in turn?

But this secret encompassed her very nature, who she was as a person. Surely she had a right to such knowledge! Or was it better to not know? To be unaware that her very existence was a crime.

She groaned and closed her eyes, her fingers rubbing hard circles into her forehead.

Kyriakos rose. “My poor sweet little wife,” he said, slipping around to her side of the table. Before she realized what was happening, he had an arm around her, one hand gripping her elbow, the other holding her opposite hand. He eased her up from her chair, and she staggered back a step, leaning into him. The sudden heat and proximity of his body awakened something inside her, something sharp and searing. Her breath caught, and she knew he heard it.

“Come, you are tired,” he murmured directly into her ear. “Rest is in order, I think. A nice long rest. We can discuss these weighty subjects further once you have slept. Come, come. A few steps only. The bed is waiting.”

He guided her across the floor, and she couldn’t resist him. When they neared the bed, she caught hold of the bedpost with one hand. Pulling away from his grip, she turned and faced him, her back against the post.

The fae lord smiled down at her, the firelight softening his strange, beautiful features. Or perhaps it was the influence of the wine? “I told you, did I not, that I have no wish to hurt you?” he murmured, lifting one hand to trace a finger along the line of her jaw.

She nodded, swallowed.

He bowed his head, bringing his eyes level with hers, dark and intent. “There is a tradition here in my country,” he said. “A wedding-night tradition. The bridegroom is free to give his bride three kisses. Just three. If she desires no more, then he will at once retire from the room. A fourth kiss is only given if requested.”

The room was very warm and seemed to spin softly around her. How many sips of the wine had she taken? And when did the strange music swell with such depth, growling in the pit of her chest? She dug her hands into the bedpost behind her, using it to hold her up.

Three kisses. That should be enough.

Enough for . . . for what?

The Sweet Dreams! Her mind roared behind the throbbing music. The Sweet Dreams, you spittin’ idiot!

This was her chance. Possibly her only chance. If she didn’t use it now, the Sweet Dreams would wear away.

She stared up into the fae lord’s dark eyes, feeling so small, so vulnerable. Would her mother’s trick be enough to take him down? If so, then what would she do?

And if not . . .

Kyriakos bowed his face toward hers. The corners of his mouth curved in a smile, flashing white, pointed canines. He leaned in, and she could almost feel the shape of his lips against hers. But they didn’t quite touch. They hovered in the air just above her mouth so that she tipped her head back and lifted her face, her lips puckering in an almost unconscious effort to close the space between them.

He retreated mere inches away, teasing. A long-fingered hand rested on her bare shoulder. Her skin burned at his touch as he trailed his fingers down her arm, toyed with the flimsy nothing-sleeve, then followed her arm